


Lead Me To You

by Gabethebabe



Series: Slice of Cherry [2]
Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Achilles uses they/them pronouns, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Anxiety Disorder, F/M, GNC Achilles, M/M, and now we take a break from your regularly scheduled shitty au for yet another shitty au, awkward friendships, references to sexual assault (nothing graphic), remembering, this took 30 years to write and yet it still sucks lmao I'm sorry, when will the self projection of my anxiety end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 08:43:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6148018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gabethebabe/pseuds/Gabethebabe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She doesn’t care if he calls her or not. She doesn’t even really see the point in digging the past back up anyway. (Why hasn’t he called? Why hasn’t he called? Why hasn’t he called?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lead Me To You

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by the fact that literally every woman in the Iliad deserved better.   
> Sorry but these updates won’t go in any type of order what-so-ever. This is before “This time around” ???   
> I decided to have their last names just be where they’re from ??? Yes

 

She was twenty when Hector proposed. As he got down on one knee and asked her to be his forever she started to cry.

It wasn’t because she was happy.

It wasn’t because she was surprised.

 It was because all she could see was his lifeless body being dragged behind Achilles’ chariot.

 But she said yes all the same because she was a young woman and it was what was expected of her.

*

When she was 26 she celebrated her graduation from college and 5 year wedding anniversary in the same month.

 _Five years._ She would whisper to herself in the dead of night. Hector would be long-since asleep next to her, ignorant of her turmoil.

 _Five years_ and she had never mentioned the way she scrubs herself raw in the shower each night, or now she feels like she’ll never be clean again.

 _Five years_ and she still sees the tyrannical face of Neoptolemus sneering at her as he throws her son over the walls of a long-dead kingdom.

 _Five years_ and she still checks to see if Hector’s still breathing.

*

The week after she turned 27 she got a letter in the mail- the address was unknown but the sender was all too familiar. She held it in her hands shaking violently and debating on whether or not to open it.

She sat at the dinner table, unable to bring herself to do it. Instead she attempted to distract herself with work she’d brought home, with cleaning, with painting, with _anything_ that would make her forget about the doom that waited on the counter.

After she’d done everything she could think to do she sat down at her kitchen table and stared at the envelope. It was light purple and the branded with the name _Patroclus._ She stared at it so long that black dots danced across her vision and the light purple walls of her kitchen turned into a prison and began to close in on her.

In a way she felt like the letter. She was begging to be let out- begging for someone to read what was within her and understand her. She didn’t like feeling like that, so she didn’t read the letter. She shoved it in her nightstand and acted like nothing happened. She’d gotten very good at that during the last 6 years.  

When Hector got home she hugged and kissed and loved him until they were both an out of breath mess. Then she made love to him like he was leaving for battle tomorrow- like this was his last night on earth. After, with the orange sheets of their bed tangled around their legs and Hector’s head on her chest he asked

“Do you ever think about kids?”

She ran her hands over his stubble and pretended to think. She wanted to scream, to tear out her blonde hair and say _I have thought about children a lot. I have thought about how the child of the lover of the man who wrote me that unread letter killed our only one. I have thought about how the only good memory I have of that horrid war is how our Astyanax laughed and played with me while you were off killing. I have thought of nothing more than children, particularly one child, since I remembered._

But instead all she did was kiss his forehead and, in her sweetest voice, say “Often.” Because she was a woman and married and that was what was expected of her.

 

That night she dreamed of Astyanax holding the letter and teething on it. She vaguely recognized the room they were in as her office, but it had been converted into a playroom for him. Bright happy animals were painted on the walls and a space-themed mobile hung over a red crib that had been shoved in a corner. She was suddenly aware of her step-mother standing behind her and watching over the scene.

Andromache turned to see her giving a grossly happy smile. “See what happens when you do what you’re supposed to do, Ande? See how happy you are as a wife and a mother?”

She was filled with a sudden rage when she felt her hair growing out of her scalp. She looked down at her chest, in horror, to see that her hair was no longer in its chin length bob but down to her stomach. “Why are you doing this?” She screamed at the woman. Behind her Astyanax started to cry, but she ignored it. “What about my office, my career?”

“Why, Andromache, you’re a wife and a mother. Pretty girls don’t need careers.”

Andromache started to claw at her scalp and scream. “I do! I’m a human! I deserve the same! Stop doing this!” Behind her the baby started wailing loudly.

“Look at what you’ve done now, daughter. You’ve focused on yourself and that feminist agenda so much that you’ve let that man take your son away.” Her step-mother pointed behind her. She wanted to scream that she wasn’t her daughter, or run away, or maybe fix all that she had broken. But instead she turned to see Neoptolemus carrying her son towards the window. Before she knew it, the walls of the room were gone and had transformed to the walls of Troy. Guards seized her arms and held her back and she screamed “NO! NOT MY SON NO!” She screamed _no_ over and over again until she was hoarse, until her throat was bleeding, but no one listened.

The last thing she heard before she woke up was Zeus laughing.

 

She woke up screaming and alone. It was passed noon and Hector was at work.

 _Work._ Andromache groaned at the thought of going back to her law firm tomorrow. She was all torn up inside- how could she be expected to sit at a desk and defend some stranger when all she could think about was her own enslavement?

Everything was all fuzzy and nothing made since and it was all because of that _damn letter._

She turned on her side so that she could look at the nightstand. Black wood and varnished engravings hid a piece of paper. _It’s a piece of paper and that’s all it is_ she tried to tell herself. Despite her best efforts to ignore it, to go back to sleep, she still felt the light purple envelope’s presence burning within.

“If I don’t open it, it’ll kill me.” She whispered to no one, but made no effort to move. Instead she focused on her bedroom wall. The yellow wall was covered in various pictures of her and Hector, her and her family, her and friends, and Hector and friends. They had a good life filled with people they loved. She and Hector were safe.

 _Why does Patroclus feel the need to bring up the past?_ She hated him. She’d never met him, never even seen him, and she hated him. She hated everything about him. In response the letter seemed to burn brighter in her mind.

“Dammit.” She whispered again and propped herself up on her elbows. With shaky hands she opened the drawer and pulled out the letter. The paper itself was plain white covered in black ink that bled through to the back. She nearly screamed when she saw the letter was written in Greek- not modern, but ancient Greek.

She closed her eyes and breathed out a sigh of frustration. This letter was trying to kill her, she was certain of it. But Andromache couldn’t sit in her bed forever- couldn’t keep her eyes closed to the truth forever- and she knew that.

So she opened her eyes and started to read.

_Andromache,_

_I cannot imagine how heavy a burden you must now bear with the knowledge that you have of our shared pasts. Neither can I explain how I know that you know nor the feeling of kindred spirithood that I feel to you, though we are but strangers._

_I feel as though I must start off this letter with an apology even though the entire purpose of this letter is to apologize. I don’t know when you remembered the past, if you remembered at all, but I am sorry for writing this letter and reopening ancient wounds. I am writing this because I feel the need to apologize for the actions of my partner and his son and the damage done to you and your family. Though Achilles will not apologize for what was done in war because, in his mind, he had every right to take from you what was taken from him, I feel I must do so for him. So many people say that we are one in our souls and spirits, so I hope that my apology for his actions will suffice._

_Not that it matters, but I want you to know that I have forgiven Hector. All acts done by Hector in war were done to protect his family. He did not know the bounty on his head, did not know that I never would have killed him, and I cannot fault him that._

_Please don’t feel pressured to respond. I just wanted to do what I could to right the wrongs of the man I love and the child that we might one day have._

_Have a good life,_

_Patroclus (and Achilles)._

Andromache felt…

nothing.

She could cry or scream or laughed but it would have meant nothing. Of course, she didn’t know what she’d expected…but it wasn’t this. It wasn’t an apology or an attempt at peace.

Quickly and without thought she stood and ran to her office. She was relieved to see the room still filled with her computer, bookshelf, and scattered case papers instead of a crib and baby. She made her way over the desk and began to write.

_Patroclus,_

_I know you said I didn’t have to write back, but I felt compelled to in ways I cannot explain. I live a good, safe, and happy life with my husband. I hope that you and Achilles have the same. Despite everything, it makes me happy to know that you can now claim Achilles as yours so publicly. The story of your love is famous in both this life and the last. The two of you were nowhere near as subtle as you had thought._

_I wish for Hector and myself to meet with you. I wish to see what can become of this, for you and I are the only ones that I know of who remember. Our shared pasts have, as you said, created a sort of kindred spirithood. It would also help settle my nerves to create some sort of friendship in the event another dispute should try to divide us._

_With wishful thinking,_

_Andromache._

She wrote her secretary’s number at the bottom of the letter and told him to call Mondays-Fridays from 10-6.

*

Within an hour she was dressed and standing in line at the post office. As the line moved forward person-by-person she started to regret her decision. She looked down at her yellow envelope, which looked white under the harsh florescent light bulbs, and wondered what she actually expected out of this. Did she expect for them to all sit around in some coffee shop talking about their lives and their husbands?

Without her knowledge the line had moved up, and she was now being called to be served.

“Next in line please.” The worker called. She continued to start down at the envelope, knuckles white from their vice-like grip on its edges.

“Ma’am.” The worker called again. Someone in the line behind her cleared her throat and she automatically moved forward with a muttered apology. It was a small miracle that her legs did not give way out from under her, or that the shaking in her body hadn’t prevented her from walking in a straight line.  

“What can I do for you?” The worker sighed. His greying hair fell in his eyes and his wrinkles were etched into his skin acting as a grim reminder of the inevitability growing old. “Ma’am?”

 _Now isn’t the time for existentialism, Ande._ She internally scolded herself. Externally she handed over the letter and gave a shaky “I-ah-mail this please.”

Before the man could ask her anything else or tell her a total she left a hundred on the desk and told him “thanks” and to “keep the change”. Her body continued to shake with regret and fear as she made her way out of the automatic glass doors.

She sat in her car hitting the steering wheel. _Why did I do that why did I do that why did I do that._ She hit the wheel each time she repeated the question.

She knew she couldn’t stay in Sunday forever. She knew she couldn’t stay in her car hitting the steering wheel forever. She knew she couldn’t she knew she couldn’t she knew she couldn’t.

But _god_ did she try.

*

She jumped out of her skin each time the phone rang that next Monday. Logically, she knew that her letter couldn’t have been sent or read that quickly, but that didn’t stop her anxiety.

*

None of the phone calls on Tuesday were from either Patroclus or Achilles. She should have been happy, but instead she was only embarrassed.

*

Nothing on Wednesday either. She tried not to think about it too much.

*

Over breakfast on Thursday Hector told her that he‘d hired a new tattoo artists fresh out of art school. She’d asked him what his name was.

He said it was “Patrick, I think. Smart kid with sad eyes and a cute girlfriend that hangs all over him.”

“Reminds me of us when we first started dating.” Andromache smiled and bit into her toast.

No calls came on Thursday either.

*

On Friday Andromache had completely given up hope. She stopped jumping each time the phone rang and buried herself deeper in the case she was working on.

“So…” Her secretary entered the room. Andromache looked up to see the woman’s normally bubbly personality painted with intrigue.

“So what?” Andromache smiled at her. She’d always seen the young woman as a little sister-mainly because of her borderline aggravating ability to read her emotions.

“Andromache, you’ve been jumping every time the phone’s so much as beeped and you’ve hardly made any progress on the Clytemnestra v. Agamemnon divorce case….” Her smile grew even wider across her ebony skin. “You’re pregnant aren’t you?”

“What? No- Briseis, no absolutely not- no way.” She stuttered, dropping her pen into her tea in shock.

“Alright then, what is it?” Briseis smiled and sat on the side of the desk. Andromache wished she could have told the girl to mind her business and shoo her off, but she knew her secretary to be far more persistent than that.

“It’s…complicated. It’s nothing.” Andromache looked the girl up and down. Normally when Briseis started to pry into her personal life, it meant something was going on in her own. Her secretary wasn’t the only one that could pry. “What are you all dressed up for?”

“I..kinda have this date right after work and I don’t have time to go home and change before.” A small blush spread across her cheeks. Andromache watched as she fidgeted with the bottom of her blush pink skirt.  

“Oh? Well, what time is it?” Both women glanced at the clock, and Andromache answered her own question. “It’s 4:30, why don’t you go home and get ready.”

“Really?” The girl jumped onto her feet with a smile that could have powered the entire business district.

“Yeah, no pay deduction.” Andromache put back on her reading glasses and tried refocused on the murder allegation filled divorce. “But I will require an invitation to the wedding.”  

Briseis squealed a “thank you” and ran out of the office. Andromache watched her go with a smile. What she wouldn’t give to be that young again.   

She had started working on the case again for not 10 minutes when the phone rang again. With a groan she stood up. _I’m never going to get this thing sorted out for court._

“Law practice of Andromache Trojan. Hello.”

“Uh Hi. I’m a-um- I don’t know. Can I speak to Andromache?” She noted the man’s shaky voice. Poor guy probably going through his first divorce.

“This is she.” Andromache offered curtly.

“Oh-I, um, hi. I’m Patroclus, you told me to call.” Time froze. She was keenly aware of someone muttering something in the background of the phone call, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. “Hello? Are you there?”

She snapped back to reality and cleared her throat. “Yes- yes, sorry! I’m just…focused on this case.”

“Okay…I got your letter on Tuesday. I’m sorry I haven’t called yet it was just all so much.” He sighed into the phone. Andromache closed her eyes and nodded, then remembered he couldn’t see her.

“I understand. Remembering and talking to one another. This is the first time I’ve done it.”

“Yeah…plus working for your husband down at the new tattoo parlor.” He laughed into the phone and the world started to spin around Andromache.

“Y-you’re the new guy working for Hector?” She tried her best to give a laugh back, but it sounded forced and fearful. “He thought your name was Patrick.”

“Him and every Starbucks I’ve ever been into.” A brief silence came over the two of them. Andromache didn’t know what to say and neither did Patroclus. How did one proceed in such a situation?

“Uh-“ Patroclus finally said after some time. “Maybe we could all meet up for coffee sometime.”

“Yeah, yeah that sounds good.” Andromache glanced down at the clock. “I get off in 30 minutes.”

“Me too, and Achilles has Fridays off.” Patroclus’ voice calmed a little more at the mention of Achilles. Andromache, despite everything, was somewhat happy the rumors of them were true. Perhaps it was because love, hope, and romance were all things that could personify the man who was responsible for almost single handedly killing her brother in-laws. If Achilles can love, and be loved, by this stuttering and nervous man, then maybe he wasn’t much more than a wounded lover. Maybe he wasn’t a monster.

“There’s a coffee place that Hector likes across the street from the parlor. We can meet there.” Behind her glass office door she was the janitors starting to clean the empty desks.

“Okay.” Patroclus’ voice was trying hard to stay strong, but it was how obviously nervous he was that brought comfort to her. On the other end of the phone she heard someone say something. “I’ll see you then, I gotta go finish up this client.”

“Sure thing.” She chirped in a cheery tone while inwardly cringing. Describing her tone as inappropriate would have been an understatement.

“Yeah…uh…bye.” The phone clicked to signal that the call had ended. Andromache had normally been a breeze at social situations, especially in delicate ones thanks to her years as a divorce lawyer, but for some reason talking to Patroclus made it hard for her to be her normal self. She was over analyzing every word and practically biting her nails in out of fear of his replies.

She grabbed her coat and purse before risking a quick glance at the clock. She got off in 15 minutes, it’d take another 15 to get down to that end of town with traffic, and she’d be lucky if she could sneak out of the office without Paris stopping to ask her some rudimentary question. She loved her in-laws- and, begrudgingly Paris- but they could be a hassle sometimes.

 

One moment she was standing in her office and thinking of Paris, and the next she was standing in front of a coffee shop on main. The time in between- hailing a cab, riding there, calling Hector- was all completely gone. She screwed her eyes shut and tried to remember, as she did she felt familiar arms wrap around her.

“Guess who?” Asked a sing-songy voice.

“An idiot.” She leaned into Hector’s embrace. Some days, now more than ever, she felt like Hector was her port in a storm.

“Rude.” He smiled and pressed a kiss to her temple. “So, why did you ask me to meet you here? What was so urgent?”

She removed herself from his arms and walked towards the door. “It’s…a surprise.”

“A surprise?” He cocked an eyebrow as she opened the door. The bell rang loudly. She cringed. “Of the romantic variety?”

“No.” She all but ran inside the café in an attempt to avoid any further questions. The familiar smell of coffee had just begun to calm her nerves when the sound of a familiar voice frazzled them. She couldn’t even process the artificial electric glow of the lights or the grossly green floor.  

“Andromache?” The voice from the phone asked timidly. It was punctuated by the sound of chair scraping against the aforementioned tile floor as he stood.

Hector looked between Patroclus and his wife in utter confusion, probably wondering as to how they knew one another. Swallowing her nerves and bile, she smiled. “This was the surprise.”

“My new worker and his…” Hector’s eyes darted over to where a previously unnoticed blonde sat. Their hair was up in a neat top knot and they wore a red sweater that had fallen off of one shoulder. Andromache tried to not think about how much they reminded her of Paris, then she tried to think about how they reminded her of Paris more than anyone. _More than Neoptolemus._

“Fiancée.” They spoke in a voice as soft and fluid as the sunrise itself. “But you can call me Achilles.”

“They and I felt like…talking to the two of you…about…things?” Patroclus’ voice was no less awkward than it had been on the phone, but Andromache couldn’t blame him. There was no manual- no etiquette class- for how to act in such a situation. _Should I apologize? Should they? Should he? Should Hector?_

But yet, despite apologies being the headline for the title of their stories, Andromache felt that _no_ \- no apologizes should be made. No past should be discussed- if anything she was more than content with ignoring it for the rest of her life. Their shared pasts were like the temples they used to worship at in Greece- rotting away and almost forgotten, save the romanticized level of importance placed about them.

“Things?” Hector asked and suspicion clouded his feature. Andromache wished she could hear what he was thinking- what a modern thought process was like. She had long since forgotten the version of herself that she used to be, and now felt as if she were woefully underprepared understudy in the play of her own life.

Patroclus looked down at Achilles, who had since intertwined their hand with his, then to Andromache expectantly. Of the three that remembered, neither Patroclus nor Andromache dared speak, and Achilles look as if they couldn’t be less interested in the matter. Andromache regretted the entire situation and allowed anxiety to gnaw away at her in the silence. All the while her eyes pleaded with Patroclus to not speak of things that Hector did not, could not, know.

“We’re planning a surprise for our dear friend- a mutual friend of Andromache’s. They were in a sorority together in college.” Achilles, despite all of their disinterest, seemed to pick up on the mood. She watched as they pressed a light kiss to Patroclus’ wrist, then hand, and then proceeded to cover his entire hand and wrist in little pink kisses.

“Oh.” All jealously and worry drained from Hector’s face and had been replaced by a look of mild confusion. He certainly hadn’t heard of Andromache having many friends outside of work- because she didn’t- and he definitely hadn’t heard of her having any secret decade long best friend from college- because she didn’t. In fact, she was at a complete and utter loss as to who they could even possibly be referring to. “Who is it?”

“Helen. She’s a dear friend of ours and she just got signed to a big name modeling agency.” Patroclus was quick to answer. He seemed as pleased with his lie as anyone could be as he shamelessly took his fiancée’s hair down to pet it. They seemed somewhat annoyed at the act, but it was an annoyance without venom that entirely faded once Patroclus’ fingers buried into their golden curls. She focused on the sight as to ignore the name they’d said. It would seem as if ignoring and regretting were on their way to being her two biggest pastimes. She would ignore, she decided, until she couldn’t ignore any more. And it would seem, as she felt Hector’s eyes on the side of her face, that the ignoring Helen’s existence was no longer an option.

Helen. She’d only ever met one Helen, and that Helen was an earthquake.  

In fear she turned to Hector to see if any sort of seed of recognition being planted in his face. When it remained in its neutral, and normally handsome, state she allowed herself to breathe a sigh of relief. Remembering was hell and she would do anything to keep her Hector from that.

“Well, what are we standing around for? We’ve got a surprise to plan!” Hector clapped his hands together, face-splitting smile over taking his features. Her Hector always loved to do for others- to bring joy to others anyway he could, and she would always remember and love him for that. The hero- the warrior covered in the blood of others- had never been _her_ Hector. That Hector that had belonged to the people of Troy and its soldiers. That Hector belonged on the battlefield- not in her bed.

*

It was a few weeks after the incident of the café, and things had gone about far better than Andromache had expected. Her and Patroclus had traded numbers and nice words under the guise of the surprise for Helen- which she was now roped into actually planning- and Hector and herself had been invited to Patroclus and Achilles’ wedding. Patroclus encouraged her to contact either of them again at any given times- if needed or if wanted- and she encouraged the same.

As a direct result of that night, Hector had been having some great days at work. Andromache… not so much, but she still listened to her husband as he sang praises of Patroclus.

“It’s like whatever wall he’d built up around himself is gone now! He’s cleaver and kind and oh, so, talented, Ande. I’ve never been happier with a recruit. I know it’s early on, but I think I might offer him his own station!” He smiled at her from across the stove top. The steam from the pasta he’d been boiling caused his classes to fog up. Andromache took them and cleaned them off as he continued to prattle on. “He can do good piercings too- I’m helping him get his license.”

Little fuzzies from her black sweater remained on the lenses of his glasses as she handed them back, but he didn’t seem to notice. She allowed herself to smile as she ran a hand through her recently trimmed bob. “Sounds like he’s an absolute delight. He reminds me a lot of Briseis, actually.”

“They do have the same sense of humor and knack for helping people.” He picked up a spoon and used it to pull a noodle out of the boiling pot. “Taste.”

She did as told, nibbling on the slightly crunchy spaghetti strand. “Needs another 10 or so.”

He sighed, setting the fork back down. “One day I’ll be as good at this as you, baby.”

“You can try.” She stood and walked away from the kitchen to their wine closet- and, yes, they had a wine closet. No, they didn’t care that it was the world’s most pretentious hobby- and returned with a bottle of vintage merlot in hand.

“Red wines go great with pasta. Patroclus told me that.” She informed him, setting the bottle down on the counter. Hector idly stirred his pasta sauce with a wooden spoon and watched her take out two glasses. He unabashedly watched the way her back arched as she reached up- the way her rear looked in the skirt she wore.

“Is that so?” He saved his inappropriate comment for after dinner, fully planning to follow it up with another mention of kids. “What a coincidence, he’s the one who gave me this recipe.”

“Is that so?” She mimicked him, taking great care to pour the wine out. She fully intended to enjoy what would probably one of the last glasses of wine she would be able to enjoy for months. _If the morning sickness was anything to go by, at least._ But decided to, once again, ignore it.

“Yes. He’s got a secret love for cooking.” Hector put the spoon down and abandoned the stove in favor of wrapping his arms around his wife. “In fact, he almost became a professional chef. He was torn between that, art, and medical something or another.”

She giggled as he placed a kiss to her temple. “Good thing he went with the art, then. For you anyway.”

“Good thing.” He sighed into her hair.

Hector didn’t know it, but there- between boiling water, over salted Cacio e pepe sauce, and a barely pregnant wife- was where he would find his last moments of peaceful ignorance.

*

It had happened later that very night.

5:34 a.m. on February 16th 2016.

That date and time would be burned into Helen’s memory for as long as she lived. After all: it wasn’t often that one could record when their worst fear was realized.It would be similarly burned into Hector’s mind, only that it would have different emotional effects on him.

Andromache had been deep asleep- exhausted, sweaty, and satisfied after a night of pasta, proposed parenthood, and passion. Her sleep was so deep that a category 5 hurricane would come and she wouldn’t have woken up; nothing could have woken her up accept-

“Andromache! Ande, Ande, Ande baby please wake up.” Hector’s borderline mad sounding ravings were being screamed right into her ear, and his large form was all about her.

“I’m up.” She said in an overwhelming panic. Her hands found their way to him- one on his head from where it had buried itself on her neck, and one around his trembling form.

“I had- I don’t- I don’t know. But, you’re okay. You’re okay, right?” He started to sob and tremble ever harder in her arms.

She nodded then realized he couldn’t see her in the darkness of their room. “I’m okay. You’re okay. We’re okay.”

He was panting and she couldn’t find the strength to think of much else beyond him in this moment, but she prayed to whatever long dead god of whatever irrelevant religion that would listen that this was _just_ a nightmare. “We? Where’s Astyanax- is all right? Tell me he’s alright.”

Hearing their son’s name out of his mouth was too much. She broke down- holding him and trying to be strong for them. _He knew. He knew. He knew._ “I didn’t want you to remember.”

He gripped her more tightly. She knew what it was like to remember- to be left shaking, confused, and crying out about atrocities that would never be given justice. She wanted nothing more than to be able to comfort him, but she could only sink into her own sadness. They cried together and held one another until both fell back asleep sometime around dawn.

Hector had been the first to wake. It was long after sun rise and too-bright light streamed through the bedroom’s curtains, casting orange tented patterns on the walls. He listened to the chirping birds- the promise of spring in an already uncharacteristically warm winter- and the sounds of passing cars- the promise of progress that reminded him that he was here.

Andromache awoke with her head in his lap and Hector chasing gentle patterns across her skin with his fingers.

“Morning.” He sighed.

“Morning.” She sat up, kissing his forehead. “Are you…are you okay?”

“I am. Sorry for scaring you.” He pulled her and the blankets she’d stolen in the middle of the night into his lap.

“No, no. I’d rather know- I’d rather be here to help you.” She rested her head on his shoulder, forehead brushing against his beard.

“I can’t imagine,” He choked up- eyes watered and throat thick- but forced himself to continue. “I can’t imagine going through that alone.”

“I got through it.” Andromache looked up at him, and allowed herself to be held. Both had so much they wanted to say to one another, but they didn’t need to. Ten years and two lifetimes had given them the ability to completely understand the words left unsaid by one another. “Because I knew that getting through it would lead me to you.”

*

They were eating breakfast a few weeks later, and doing good to act like everything was fine. But the dust from the past still hadn’t settled and, if anything, was choking Hector. The familiar noises of the café settled around the group of four, and an unfamiliar familiarity surged between them.

Achilles casually poked at the remains of his scrambled eggs, Andromache stirred creamer into her coffee, Patroclus dipped some of his bagel into cream cheese, and Hector watched the other three.

“You haven’t touched your breakfast at all, Hector.” Patroclus said in a voice that was far gentler than Hector felt he deserved.

“It’s just…all so hard to stomach. I’m sorry.” He leaned across the table and placed his hand on Patroclus’. He pointedly ignored the dagger of jealously that Achilles was glaring at him.

“You’ve already apologized, and you don’t need to be sorry. It was war- it was kill or be killed.” Patroclus took another bite of his bagel and shrugged in a manner that both Andromache and Hector felt was far too casual for the situation.

“I killed you and my son killed your son. I really think that we should be the one’s apologizing.” Achilles possessively wrapped their arm around Patroclus’ waist. “I also think that we shouldn’t be comparing ancient trespasses.”

“I agree.” Andromache said as she started to pour cavity-inducing amount of sugar into her cup.

Across the table, Achilles covered Patroclus’ face in kisses. Hector somewhat admired the way the young lovers were so deeply, yet so casually in love. He hoped he and Andromache’s love was comparable, but he knew that no one’s relationship could ever realistically compare to theirs. If his and Ande’s romance was a candle, Patroclus and Achilles’ was the sun itself.  

He wished he had his wife’s ability to lose himself in his own thoughts as to ignore pressing issues, but something that had been on Hector’s mind since before he remembered- since that night they first met in the café- was starting to weigh down on him. He worried about bringing it up, for fear of bringing about his wife’s ire (or anxiety). Even so he knew he needed to ask.

“So….” He cleared his throat, trying to find the motivation to continue speaking. He’d long since lost the ability to speak in his charismatic and commanding tone like the crowned prince he used to be. “You said that you knew a Helen. Is it…?”

“Yes. She used to be our roommate, but after we got engaged she moved out on her own.” Achilles smiled, their arms wrapped around Patroclus’ form still. Hector was thankful that he didn’t need to finish his question. In all reality, he knew he probably couldn’t have brought himself to give life to the words that had lived inside of him for so long.  

“She would love to see you again, if you’d be up to it.” Patroclus answered a question Hector had yet to ask. Anxiety was gnawing at Andromache, he could tell, but he couldn’t stop until he saw her. _Until I know she’s happy and safe._

“And…” Achilles looked up at Patroclus, then back to Hector. “We have a way that you could.”

“If you’d be up to it, of course.” Patroclus smiled awkwardly, his brown eyes focused stubbornly on his plate. A small smile was on his lips, despite his obvious nerves. “We’re getting married you know.”

“You don’t say?” Andromache was always the first to pick up on Patroclus’ subtle sarcasm. Of course her and Hector knew: it’s all Achilles and Patroclus talked about anymore. _“We’re having two ceremonies! One for my family and one for us. It’ll be a party- Ace’ll be wearing a dress.”_ And _“What type of cake should we get? Patroclus is some sort of terrible person that apparently loves to suffer and insists that we get lemon. LEMON CAKE! On_ my _special day can you believe that?_ And even _“What color pallet should we do? Green and pink is too gross, but they’re out favorite colors. What colors did you two do?_ And so on and so forth, about this and this and this.

“I know- shocking that the two of us would ever consider tying the knot.” Patroclus abandoned his blueberry bagel in favor of friendly banter, and, perhaps, a proposition. “Well- the way we’re doing the wedding party is that we’re going to have 6 friends of mixed genders for our parties.”

Andromache saw Hector scoot to the edge of his seat as Patroclus spoke. He had hinted to her that he might be interested in being more than just a guest at their wedding, but refused to propose the matter to either Achilles or Patroclus. _“Why would Patroclus pick the guy that killed him to be one of his groomsmen?”_ Andromache, knowing a little more than him thanks to Achilles’ lack of subtly and their constant texting, had just smiled and told him to not lose hope.

Patroclus, still nervous despite Hector’s puppy-like enthusiasm, continued. “I was wondering if you’d be interested in being in my wedding party- as my matron of honor and best man, of course.” Patroclus smiled awkwardly, vulnerable and somewhat fearing rejection. Rejection that he needn’t fear, because Hector was already agreeing to be in the wedding, regardless of position.

“Absolutely! We’d love to.” He clapped his hands together and looked to his wife. She laughed a little at her husband’s enthusiasm and agreed.

“I wouldn’t give up this opportunity for the world.” She took a sip of her coffee, cringing at how over-sweetened it was.

“Great.” Patroclus’ own excitement threatened to rival Hector’s. “We’ve only got a few of our groomsmen and groomswomen picked out thus far, but we’re all meeting up to look at dresses this Saturday.”

“Will Helen be there?” Andromache asked for her husband, knowing his anticipation at seeing his old friend. In truth, she didn’t resent Helen as so many others in Troy had. She didn’t blame her- didn’t blame any woman involved- and she wished to convey that to her husband.

“Yes. Achilles and I thought that it would be a good time to surprise her.”

“She speaks of the two of you often.” Achilles finished for his husband and punctuated his speech with a kiss.

Andromache couldn’t hold back her smile. It looked like Helen would be getting her surprise after all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been writing this since, like, ??? January. It’s been a huge undertaking and it’s not even that good RIP. Also sorry I keep switching between he/they pronouns for Achilles??? Um??? Yeah ~~they’re my pronouns lmao RIP~~


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